Herath of my school days

By: Arjimand Hussain

My school day winter mornings were a mosaic  of Azan and Aarti. My Pandit friends and I, wrapped in rolls of Pheran and Maflar tweeds, would chase shadows on the Karan Nagar Bund. Durga Nath Sir, one fine morning, broke his spare stick on our knuckles for someone’s mischief of shattering his favourite Red Sunmica stick. And soon Herath arrived. The tears, silently shed under the fringes of a new haircut, gave way to fun and glee. That was a time when winter’s last sigh was bidding goodbye to Kashmir.

On our morning bicycle ride to tuition, through Karan Nagar to Durga Nath sir’s Budshah Flats abode, it was a different aura. Our Pandit friends’ families would fast. Temples all around would chant mantras – honor Shiva’s union with Parvati — love sculpted in legend and mountains. Sheher-i-Khass pulsed with mosque prayers. Khankah reverberated with soulful Awraad-i-Fathiyeh. Loud speakers were not that loud. There was a symphony of sorts.

Today, it is February 26th — a date, in our school days, when we shared Kangris, bicycles and hearths on freezing misty mornings. It is also a time when I see a fading frost etching those memories on the window panes of the Sheher-i-Khass. Little less on the newly-built, soulless suburban bunglows.
At my Pandit friends’ homes, when dawn broke, kitchens would hum. Women would start grinding Kaesher spices. Only Kaesher spices. Fishermen, meanwhile, would cast their nets in icy crystal waters of the Jhelum river and Dal lake. Fish were saffron-stained, sizzling in Kashmir’s quintessential mustard oil.

That evening, we got an invite for a Gaade Saal at Habba Kadal – at Dhar sir’s home. Riding the same Avon Red bicycle, we crossed the Kani Kadal threshold, not borders, to feast at our loved teacher’s home. On the way, temples glowed with oil lamps, flickering like earthbound stars.

When we arrived, we got hugs of sincere affection. Joy was real. The aroma of Mushkbuduj rice had created a mystique of desire. A Black & White TV, wrapped in colorful cloth, like a bride, was dark and silent. There were no loathe-filled color-TV-era shows coming at night. Elegant, fragranced Dastarkhan – a shared tradition – not tables, groaned under the grace of togetherness. Walnuts, soaked to tenderness in the earthen pots, made from the Karewa soil of Nund Reshi’s (RA) lands, passed between hands. “Herath Mubarak,” we would greet every elder coming there, with a smile. Aurr Zuv – they would bless us in return, sweeping their warm hands over our heads. 

Those days, as the night deepened, we shared stories, smoke swirled from the raw pine charcoal of our sizzling Kangris. Our Pandit friends shared legends; we would share Nund Reshi’s Shrukhs and Lalla’s Vakhs. We were children of the same land, oblivious to dogma, but bound by common history, culture and  legacies. Faiths didn’t blur — they thrived in the Divine Order – Lakum Deenukum Waliyaddeen.

Then — the traumatic silence. Exodus. Empty chairs in the classroom. The empty little front seat on my bicycle. The missing hands on the shared Kangri at Dulloo sir’s English tuition class. A people scattered, carrying Herath in their hearts like exiled dreams. Those who stayed cradle their absence. Chattabal, Habba Kadal, Karan Nagar homes of our friends no longer scent fish feasts; our lost friends’ courtyards miss the crunch of walnut shells.

Memories persist. A friend’s mother’s recipe, preserved.

So, today, my wife and I tried cooking Sabz Haakh in a distant land. Six days ago, I put a few dry walnuts in a jar, and tucked in a drawer —brittle, yet unbroken. Sadly, I had a flight to take, so couldn’t carry along. Social media now hosts nostalgia: pixelated photos, longing typed in comments. “Do you remember…?” But it is not the same. Yes, times do change, but this change is a change filled with pain.

Kashmir’s winters still bleed beauty. Snow blankets Zabarwan hills. Dal Lake froze this winter momentarily, mirroring skies heavy with unshed tears. Herath endures — in secret sighs.

In thoughts and memories, my Pandit friends sent me walnuts through postal veins; I reciprocated with saffron threads we last grew in our Karewa farm before the new climate and rodents took all that away. Gifts traversed  barbed wires of history.

Today, we recall with moist eyes – “But we grew together”. My Pandit friends, now in Jammu and across the Atlantic, whisper back, “We left, but the land lingers.” Separation carved canyons, but the river of memory flows beneath the Jhelum at Habba Kadal and Safa Kadal.

Herath remains — with the promise that one day we, and, maybe, our children, too, would meet again in the freezing February dawn on the Karan Nagar Bund. We may sing again – Che Kamyoo Karinai Taweez Pann. Together, we were spring (Sounth)  and meadow. Together, we could thaw winter. One day. Insha Allah.

The writer is founder of Ziraat Times, and specialises in international development.